Say it loud say it proud

A year ago, when X was not quite 10 weeks old, I went back to Hell.

Okay, maybe that's a ginormous slight exaggeration. It wasn't unbearably hot and fiery or anything. Otherwise, seriously, it was exactly the same, with horrible devices of torture and an evil, cruel being who made me do unspeakable things.

That's right. I went back to my personal trainer. 

It was awful. I could barely do biceps curls because my muffin top was in the way. Sit ups? Not happening. At least, not without a crane.

In truth, my trainer is more Bob than Jillian. Only funnier. Better-looking, too. But equally as effective. The guy knows his shit.

I worked out with him once a week. I looked forward to my hour. Not just because I was gradually losing weight and getting stronger. It was often the only time I did something completely for myself, with nobody grabbing at me or whining or asking for yet another cookie. Sometimes I showed up a few minutes late, as X took his time nursing. But I always made it.

No matter how cranky or stressed I was, by the time I got my blood pumping, I always felt much better. Even when it hurt. 

And, frankly, I don't want to be the mom who talks about those 15 pounds she still needs to lose after her last baby - which she had five years ago. I'm old, people. Weight does not just fall off like it did in my 20s. Not that it fell off then, unfortunately, but you know what I'm saying. I have to work hard. As an older mom, I really need to stay fit so I can keep up with my kids and, hopefully, be around long enough to see grandchildren.

So. One year later, I'm down more than 30 pounds. And at least three sizes. Maybe four.

I have muscles. 

I can run a 6-minute mile pace. Granted, I can't hold it for much more than 45 seconds, but for me, that's pretty good. Especially considering this time last year, maintaining a 12-minute pace for 45 seconds would've required the defibrillator. 

I see my cheekbones. And my hipbones.

There is still a LOT of room for improvement. I'm not going out for runs on a regular basis. If I manage three times a week it's a miracle. I've run more than three miles just once. My diet isn't great, but now that X is down to nursing just twice - and sometimes only once - a day, I'm eating some dairy and soy and even wheat so I no longer skip meals or rely on Lay's potato chips as a major food group.

Having three kids in five years is not kind on the body. I've got the old lady skin on my stomach. I've got cellulite (yes I do. I said it. I own it. I have it.). Crows feet. Should we even discuss which direction(s) my boobs are heading?

I'm incredibly self-critical, but just for today, I'm going to celebrate my achievements. This is something I never do. I think this is something MOST of us never do.

So today, join me, silence your inner critic, and give yourself credit. You've earned it. You deserve it. And besides, you look fabulous. You do!

I may not be a MILF to anyone but my husband, and I'm not back to the marathon-running shape I was in when I got pregnant, but for a 41-year old mother of three, I look pretty damn good.

Pretty damn good.

This post is part of the Mommyologist's celebration of Mom Sexy.